“My bold slave,” she said.

I shrugged.

“Do you find me pleasing,” she asked, “out of mannish desert garb?”

I regarded her. “Yes,” I said.

In her hands I saw she held a kaiila crop. “I am mistress,” she said.

“You are quite beautiful,” I said. “You should be a slave girl.”

She put back her head and laughed. “Bold, bold slave.” said she. “I like you!

You seem different from the others. Perhaps I will not, even, give you a girl’s name.”

“Perhaps not,” I admitted.

“I have wondered, sometimes,” said she, “what it would be like to be a woman.”

“Surely you are a woman,” I said.

“Am I attractive?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know that, with a scimitar,” she asked, “I am quite skilled, more skilled than any man?”

“No,” I said, “I did not know that.”

“But I have wondered sometimes,” she said. “What it would be like to be a woman.”

I smiled.

“A true woman,” she said, “at the mercy of a man.”

“Oh?” I asked. I looked about the room. There were, here and there, in coffers, scarves, and, from which the hangings depended, suitable cords.

The guards would have to be dealt with.

Then her manner changed. She became arrogant, angry. “Serve me wine, Slave,” she said.

I went to the wine table and, from the curved vessel, poured a small cup of wine. I gave this to her. She sat, on the edge of the couch, and sipped it. Then her eyes became irritated. “Orders I gave,” said she, “that you were to be presented to me this night in yellow slave beads. I see that I must have the seraglio mistress beaten in the morning.”

“No,” I said. “I have them here, inside my tunic.”

“Put them on,” she said.

“No,” I said.

She put down the wine. “No?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She laughed. “But I may have you whipped,” she said, “tortured, destroyed.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Kneel to the whip,” she said. She lifted the crop.

“No,” I said.

She stood back. She did not attempt to strike me. “I do not understand,” she said. “Surely you must understand that, in this room, in this kasbah, in the Tahari, you are mine, to do with as I please. I have complete power over you!

You are my slave, absolutely!”

“No,” I said.

“What a fantastic slave you are,” she said. “I do not know if I should have you killed or not.” She looked at me. “Are you not afraid?”

“No,” I said.

“You are different,” she said, “different from all the others. I must handle you carefully. I do not even know if it would be wise to break you, to make you cringe and grovel.” She seemed lost in thought.

I poured myself a small cup of the wine, and drank it, replacing the cup on the table.

“You are beautiful,” I said, looking at her. “Your lips,” I said, “are interesting.” They were a bit full, protruding, pouting. They would crush well beneath a man’s teeth.

“How is that?” she asked.

“It would be easy,” I said, “to bring blood from them in a master’s kiss.”

Her eyes flashed. “Go to the slave ring!” she hissed.

“No,” I said.

She stood back, as though stunned. “I will call the guards,” she said.

“Do so,” I suggested.

But it was clear she did not wish to do this.

“You do not obey me,” she said.

“You are the woman,” I said. “It is you who must obey.”

“Insolent sleen!” she cried, turning away, gown swirling. “Insolent sleen!” Then she faced me. “I shall call the guards, now,” she said, “to enter and destroy you!”

“But you will not then learn,” I said, “what it is to be a woman, a true woman-at the mercy of men.”

She went to the window angrily, furiously, and looked out, over the walls of the kasbah to the sands silvered by the light of the three moons. Overhead the stars were bright.

She turned to face me, fists clenched, her right fist on the kaiila crop.

“Surely you have been curious to learn, sometime, what it would be like to be a true woman-at the mercy of men.”

“Never!” she cried. “Never! I am Tarna. I do not have such thoughts! I am Tarna!

I am Tarna!”

She turned away, to the window.

“Call the guards,” I said.

She turned to face me. “Teach me to be a woman,” she said.

“Come here,” I said. She came and stood before me, angry. I put out my hand. She looked at it. Then slowly she put the long, supple, leather kaiila crop into my hand.

“Would you dare to strike me?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Is it your intention to strike me?” she asked.

“If you do not obey,” I said.

“You would,” she said. “You would!”

“Yes,” I said.

“I will obey,” she said.

I threw the kaiila crop to one side, to the floor. It slid along the tiles. She watched it.

“Fetch me the crop,” I said.

She did so, and again placed it in my hand. “Turn about,” I told her. “Go to the couch, lie upon it.”

Her shoulders shook with defiance. But then she turned about, and went to the couch, lying upon it.

I let her lie there for a moment, I watched her eyes. I had little doubt, from her eyes, and her breathing, that if I were to touch her body, intimately, my hand would be hot and soaked with the helplessness of her arousal. Seldom had I seen a woman so ready.

Tarna, I gathered, had waited long to be a woman.

I threw aside the kaiila crop.

“Do you not want the crop,” she asked, “to discipline me?”

“Fetch it,” I said.

She rose from the bed, scarcely able to stand, bent over, so much was her need upon her.

“No,” I said.

She looked at me.

“On your knees,” I said. “In your teeth.”

She crawled to the crop and, putting her head down, sideways, took it in her teeth. She, on her hands and knees, brought it to me. I took it roughly from her mouth. “Get on the couch,” I told her.

“Yes, Warrior.” she whispered, again crawling upon the scarlet sheets. I put the crop beside the couch, at hand. I doubted that it would be necessary to use it.

I went to one of the coffers and picked out two scarves.

“What are they for?” she asked.

“You will see,” I told her.

I dropped them to the pillow beside her. “You made me fetch a kaiila crop,” she said, “on my hands and knees, and in my mouth, as though I might be a she-sleen.”

“You are a she-sleen,” I said. “You will be treated as one.”

“I am not in the habit,” she said, “of fetching kaiila crops in my teeth for men.”

“If you knew more men,” I said, “true men, the experience would be less unfamiliar.”

“I see,” she said.

“The she-sleen,” I said, “is a sinuous and beautiful animal, and very dangerous, one cannot show weakness with such an animal. They will turn and rend the master. One must keep them under perfect discipline.”

“And if one keeps the she-sleen under perfect discipline?” asked Tarna.

“Then,” said I, “it is a superb, and beautiful, and most pleasing pet.”

“And I am the she-sleen?” she asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“And,” she asked, “am I, your she-sleen, to be kept under perfect discipline?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You are a beast,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“If I were a she-sleen,” she said, snuggling back into the pillow, “I think I would like a master such as you.”

“You are a she-sleen,” I said.

“And you?” she asked.

“I am your master,” I said.

“Keep me under perfect discipline, Master,” she said.

“I will,” I said.

She looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright.

“I give you my permission,” she said, “to do with me what you want.”

“I do not need your permission,” I said.

Her hands were beside her bead, on the pillow. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“You will see,” I told her. I stood beside the couch, looming over her, looking down upon her.

I saw she wished to say something. I waited. She rose up, on her elbows.